For the Honor of Randall Part 7

"Good!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Phil. "It will be one that we've owed Dutch for a long time."

The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the big lad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team for Randall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that all was in readiness, spoke:

"Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?"

"Not that I know of," replied the unsuspecting one. "How is it done?"

"This way," answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom's bent back, legs and arms outstretched.

"Here! I say! Wow! What----"

But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.

"Event number one. Putting the shot!" cried Sid, after the manner of an announcer giving a score at track games, "Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven feet, six and one-quarter inches!"

"Oh, dry up!" commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had arisen to his feet. "That's one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are done laughing, I've got a bit of news for you."

"About athletics?" asked Frank eagerly.

"No, but we're going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork's place to-morrow."

"No!" cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow from his garments.

"But yes!" insisted Dutch. "Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson Tines--alias Pitchfork--has been called to deliver a lecture on the habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers.

It's to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can't get back here to-morrow in time to take his cla.s.ses. He's going to provide a subst.i.tute."

"Oh joy!" cried Phil.

"Wait," cautioned Frank. "The remedy may be worse than the disease."

"Who's the sub?" asked Tom.

"Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board," replied Dutch.

"What's 'H. A.' stand for?" Sid wanted to know.

"Ha! Ha! of course," replied Tom promptly.

"Joke!" spoke Frank solemnly.

"Harold Archibald," declared Sid. "Oh, say, we won't do a thing to him.

I'll wager he's one of these pink and white little men, who wears a number twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk a crack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?"

"Don't take too much for granted," advised Dutch. "I picked out a Harold Archibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the same one, but--well, come on down the street. I've got a quarter that's burning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise the mortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there."

"_Pro bono publico!_" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Tom. "Your deeds will live after you, Dutch."

"And if you upset me again, you'll go to an early grave," declared the big lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous labors of the day.

When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning, there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gone around that there might be "something doing" in regard to the professor who had come to temporarily fill the place of "Pitchfork."

No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of "Harold Archibald,"

had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to his character and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when they found awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of dark hair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to a degree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who had come "not prepared" began to dip surrept.i.tiously into their Latin books, while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at once gave them over.

"Good morning, gentlemen," began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep, but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was Hannibal Achilles.) "I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will do the best I can. You will recite in the usual way."

Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them a little history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketching the events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them.

It was much more interesting than when "Pitchfork" had the cla.s.s and the boys did their best.

But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.

The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order to ill.u.s.trate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means of books constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers were represented by more books, outside the walls.

"This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used," went on the instructor. "You can imagine the surprise of the besieged army when the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, and began hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to cover the attack on another part of the city.

"For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler.

This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er--I think I will ask one of you young men to a.s.sist me--er--you," and he pointed to Dutch.

"Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. I want to show the cla.s.s how the other division of the army sapped the walls."

There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked at the improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book, with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for the stone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rock could be made to fly over into the midst of the besieged city. But Dutch also noticed something else.

There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map of battle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutch subst.i.tuted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send the inkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went on with his preparations to sap the city walls.

"Now we are all ready," he announced. "You may operate the catapult," he added, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at his chums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the ink would be well distributed.

Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking at Dutch, or the catapult, he said:

"On second thoughts you may come here--er--Mr. Housenlager. I will work the catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All ready now. Stand here."

Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocent stone. Yet he knew, and all the cla.s.s could see, that he was standing where he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professor appeared all unconscious of the inkwell.

"Ready!" called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of the ruler a smart blow.

Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve, and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quick enough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the black fluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while a new pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new and wonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.

"Wow! Wuff!" spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in his mouth. And then the cla.s.s roared.

CHAPTER VI

THE NEW LEAGUE

Professor Broadkins looked up, as if mildly surprised at the merriment of the students. He glanced over into the walled city that he had constructed out of books, and then at Dutch. The sight of that worthy, with ink dripping from him appeared to solve the mystery.

"Why, er--Housenlager--what happened?" inquired the instructor. "Did some one----?"